One Night with a Rake (Regency Rakes) (22 page)

It was well after midnight before Lord and Lady Yorkingham returned home. The performance of
Don
Giovanni
was acclaimed a triumph and the applause at the last curtain call had lasted a full quarter of an hour.

Nathaniel knew this because he overheard Lord Yorkingham grumbling about the way his hands went numb over all that clapping as he escorted his wife to their door. Lady Yorkingham nagged him for lack of appreciation of the arts. The marquis finally pulled her close and kissed her soundly to hush her scolding. After that, they hurried in, giggling like a pair of newlyweds.

Nate snorted and settled back in between the bare bushes in the Yorkingham’s small front garden. Anyone trying to enter the town house from the rear would encounter the footmen and bootblack boy who made out their pallets in the kitchen. Nathaniel had made a nest for himself with his garrick so he could keep an eye on things in the front. Since the lord and lady of the house hadn’t noticed him there in the darkness, he felt certain his hiding place was secure.

No one with evil intent would spy him there either.

He’d been expected to return to Yorkingham House hours ago, but he couldn’t muster the courage to cross the threshold. If he slept under the same roof as Georgette, he didn’t trust himself not to slip into her chamber and shag her silly.

If he was willing to cheerfully murder Mr. Alcock in a duel for trying to ruin her with his agent’s smarmy report of their afternoon tryst, the least Nate could do was keep from being caught actually accomplishing the deed.

The time since he left Georgette that afternoon had been spent productively. First, he went back to his Cheapside flat to collect his mail and order the payment of several bills, including his long-suffering tailor. He’d neglected the business end of his life of late. It was soothing to do something which required only logic with no troubling compressions of his gut.

His friend Lord Rhys Warrington had sent him a letter and Nathaniel pulled it from his waistcoat pocket to reread it by the yellow light of the gas lamp on the street outside Yorkingham House. After Rhys explained that he’d married Lady Olivia Symon rather suddenly—almost by accident, really—he penned the most interesting part of the missive.

Since I married Lady
Olivia, Mr. Alcock tossed me a crumb of information that could lead to our full vindication. According to Alcock
, Nathaniel’s friend wrote,
there
is
a
witness
who
can
attest
to
the
plot
to
deliver
fraudulent
intelligence
to
us
prior
to
the
battle at Maubeuge. The man’s name is Sergeant Leatherby, but he took ship for Portsmouth before I could locate him.

He is willing to testify, but is justifiably concerned for his safety should he do so. If you have the ability to travel to Portsmouth to apprehend him, I urge you to do it. I am still on my honeymoon and my bride would not appreciate me playing enquiry agent at this stage in our marriage.

If
I
can
aid
you
in
any
other
matter, call on me.

Nate refolded the letter. Rhys could do nothing to help him now. But at least the information in the letter was a start toward protecting his family from Alcock’s spite.

He looked up at Georgette’s dark window.

He needed to protect her from other things. From her fearless meddling in sordid places. From the man in the tweed coat and deerstalker he’d noticed entering Sadie O’Toole’s new brothel. The gentleman moved in Georgette’s circles. Nate had seen him about town in fashionable haunts and remembered his name.

But he needed confirmation before he made an accusation.

That evening, Nathaniel had retraced his steps and revisited O’Toole’s red door, going in this time. He hired the girl with the freshest bruising on her neck for an hour. But instead of bedding her, he spent the time in her squalid chamber convincing her to tell him all she knew about the man in the deerstalker and tweed jacket.

“’Is name? Ye don’t think the gentlemen gives us their real names, do ye, guv?” the whore had asked him, casting him a jaundiced gaze. “The other girls and me, we just calls him Mr. Handy.”

“Because he’s useful?”

“No, Gawd love ye. It’s because he likes to use his hands on us, and not in a good way neither, if ye catch me meaning.” She pulled back the hair she’d let tumble around her shoulders in hopes of covering the mottled purple at her neck. “He likes to choke us.”

Her gaze dropped to her lap. “He watches, like a snake, while me eyes go dark. Then when I comes to myself, he’s got his thing inside me, pumpin’ away like there’s no tomorrow.”

Nate poured her another shot of the whisky he’d brought with him, but didn’t interrupt her tale.

“The trick is to lie still as the dead and take shallow breaths whilst he does his business, ye see,” the girl said. “It goes a lot faster that way. If ye move, he starts over by putting yer lights out again.”

The girl went on to say that the rumor around the whorehouse was that Mr. Handy had killed a girl in Sadie O’Toole’s last brothel. Maybe more than one. The whores thought Sadie must have the goods on him because he was free with the blunt every time he came to visit. Which was far too often for the working girls’ comfort. In any case, Mr. Handy was the one putting up the coin for Sadie’s renovations, so he pretty much got to do anything he wanted with anyone he wanted.

And in his own private room too.

When his hour was up, Nate told the girl about his House of Sirens on Lackaday Lane and offered her a place there if she wanted out of her current life.

The girl covered his hand with kisses and promised to present herself to Mrs. Throckmorten as soon as she could steal away the next morning.

Nate still didn’t have enough proof to go to a magistrate with his suspicions, but he’d be on the watch since “Mr. Handy” was accepted by the ton. He’d protect Georgette from him with his heart’s blood if necessary.

But most of all, Nathaniel needed to protect Georgette from himself. He would bring her only grief, only disgrace, and he couldn’t bear to taint her life with it.

Nate realized with an ache in his gut that he wanted the best for her. Georgette deserved to wear a crown. She deserved every happiness.

Even if it wasn’t with him.

That meant he had to step aside and let her match with the Duke of Cambridge proceed. When she wed the royal duke, he’d probably slip into the nave of Westminster to stand and listen to her vows echo in the soaring arches overhead. It would make him go dead inside, but making certain of her future with the royals would be the last good thing he could do for her.

Then he’d go in search of Sergeant Leatherby in Portsmouth for the sake of his friends and their happiness.

There could be none for him.

So
this
is
what
love
really
is.

He thought he’d known when he was betrothed to Anne. When he lost her, he’d wallowed in grief and self-pity. He’d mourned for the future he’d imagined with her, for his solitary march through the years after she’d gone.

But he realized now that it had always been about him.

Nothing in his experience prepared him for setting himself aside like this. He was desperate to see everything made right for Georgette, damn the consequences to himself.

He was losing the woman he loved again. But this time, there was nothing left of him to worry over.

Nate pulled his garrick around his shoulders and turned his back to the wind.

***

“Rise and shine, my lady,” Mercy sang out, cheerful as a cricket.

Georgette pried her eyelids open and then, when Mercy threw back the draperies, squinched them tight again against the glare of light. The sun was a disgustingly low yellow ball on the eastern horizon.

“What are you doing up so early?” she mumbled, covering her face with one of her pillows.

“None o’ that now.” Mercy lifted a corner of the pillow, peeping under the down-filled case at her. “Have ye forgotten what day it is today?”

Georgette had been trying to. She’d pushed the future away with both hands, but it rushed toward her now like a runaway coach and six.

“The ball for the royal duke,” she said flatly.

“Oh, right. I suppose it is, at that,” Mercy said. “But it’s also the Ladies’ Maids’ Ball, remember? I asked ye last week could I have the evening off so Mr. Darling can take me. Do ye mind it now?”

Georgette nodded sleepily.

“So we needs to get ye ready a tad earlier today so’s I can see to meself later. Oh, would ye look at those eyes?” Mercy made tsking noises as she threw the covers back and took Georgette’s hands to urge her up. “A body would never guess ye’ve been abed.”

She very nearly hadn’t been. After tossing about under her coverlet, sometime during the dark hours, Georgette had slipped from her chamber and padded to the guest wing.

Nathaniel’s bed was undisturbed.

She’d settled into the wing chair by his banked fire, waiting for him to return. At some point, she fell into an exhausted light slumber and jerked herself awake when dawn turned the sky a sickly pearl. She managed to return to her own room without discovery, but she nearly bumped into a pair of maids as they slipped into some unused chambers to scrub the hearths. Every room in Yorkingham House must be beyond reproach when a royal duke came calling, whether he’d ever enter the chamber or not.

“Well, I’ve buckets of things to finish afore we’re both ready for this evening’s doings,” Mercy said, “but let’s see what a little witch hazel and a bit of paint will do for that puffiness.”

Mercy poked and prodded and fussed at Georgette, repairing the damage of a sleepless night. After half an hour of Mercy’s ministrations, Georgette looked amazingly bright-eyed, but nothing repaired the confusion in her heart.

Where was Nathaniel? And why did he leave her to face what was coming by herself on this day of all days?

Alone in the dining room, Georgette pushed the buttered eggs and sausages around her plate without bringing the fork to her lips. The room was so empty, the scrape of her fork on china was loud enough to make her cringe.

“Where are my parents?” she asked Mr. Rigsby when he tried to present her with a rack of toast.

Mr. Rigsby’s ears flushed a deep scarlet. “My lord and lady have elected to take a breakfast tray together in my lord’s bedchamber.”

That was unusual enough for even the unflappable Mr. Humphrey, who stood watch over the dining room from the corner, to involuntarily arch a surprised brow.

Evidently her father’s evening at the opera had turned into something much more. Georgette covered a small smile with her napkin. It was about time her parents stopped being strangers with each other.

She was happy for them, but she really could have used their company to divert her thoughts from the coming ball. Though on further reflection, she realized if her mother were there, all she’d be chattering about would be the evening’s festivities.

What she really needed was Nate.

“Has Lord Nathaniel had breakfast?” she asked, hoping he’d returned after she’d given up and made her way back to her chamber.

“No, my lady.” Mr. Humphrey stepped up to refresh her tea. “To my knowledge, Lord Nathaniel did not return to Yorkingham House last night.”

Her belly twisted itself in knots.

He
loves
me
, Georgette reminded herself. He’d practically sung it as they came together in his string bed. But he’d been so distant after that idyllic interlude, and he hadn’t even bothered to tell her good-bye.

What had happened?

She wondered if he was pursuing Vesta and Mr. Bagley’s killer without her. If so, he might be in danger. Or would her presence only hamper his investigation? Usually, the idea that Nathaniel might be better off without her in tow never entered her mind.

She pondered it now.

He
does
seem
to
have
to
spend
an
inordinate
amount
of
time
carting
me
off
over
his
shoulder.

She frowned down at her plate and decided to abandon the cause of breakfast.

Georgette wandered through Yorkingham House with no idea how to fill the time till she had to dress for the ball. Mercy had wheedled her into promising to go in search of a new bonnet to complement the cast-off gown Mercy would be wearing to the Ladies’ Maids’ Ball that evening, but they couldn’t even set out till Mercy finished a few chores.

If Georgette was at loose ends, the rest of the household bristled with activity. In the ballroom, her mother’s army of workers was busy festooning the grand space with reams of red silk, lace-trimmed hearts, and papier-mâché flowers. Cook was in upheaval in the kitchen preparing the dainty dishes destined for the sideboards set up in an anteroom off the ballroom. Mrs. Thistle had marshaled every maid in Yorkingham House to polish the brass and scrub the floors till she could see her reflection in the gleaming marble and hardwood.

The daughter of the house was about to become a future royal duchess. His Highness might make his formal declaration that night in Yorkingham House. The very air vibrated with expectancy.

Yet if a certain second son would only say the word, Georgette would blithely run off to Gretna Green with him without a backward glance.

Lord Roger Fishwick strolled into White’s at half-past nine in the morning with only a slight wobble in his walk. True, he wasn’t entirely sober, but he wasn’t as drunk as usual after an all-night carouse either.

A few gentlemen were engaged in a card game, but for once, Lord Gobberd wasn’t among them. Instead, that overblown windbag had commandeered one of the stuffed chairs by the large window, the better to see and be seen as he read his freshly ironed newspaper and slurped down his morning coffee.

At
least
he’s a useful overblown windbag
, Roger thought. Anything the teeniest bit scandalous about anyone was sure to have caught Gobberd’s notice, and he wasn’t shy about sharing his knowledge.

Roger slid into the chair opposite him and signaled to the waiting footman to bring him a steaming cup.

“The Jamaican brew, and step lively,” he ordered. Tea simply wouldn’t do. A pot of chocolate was for women or men with no hair on their chests. To keep Roger awake and upright, it had to be Arabica beans so stout they could lift the cup and carry it across the table on their own.

Gobberd peered over the top of his paper, his slanting gaze taking in the bedraggled state of Roger’s neckcloth and the grubbiness of his cuffs.

“Haven’t found your bed yet, I see, Fishwick.”

“No matter,” Roger said with a cheerful snort. “I found someone else’s.”

Gobberd laughed heartily at that. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, son. You remind me of me.”

A
much
younger
and
fitter
version
of
you
, Roger thought as the footman brought his coffee. Unfortunately, the servant jostled the cup in the saucer as he set it down and spilled some of the precious brew. Roger gave him a blistering tongue-lashing and the fellow backed away, apologizing profusely and promising to bring a fresh pot, not just a fresh cup.

“And a plate of biscuits too, while you’re about it,” Roger said with an imperious glare. Once the fellow hotfooted it back to the kitchen, Roger turned back to Lord Gobberd. “What’s wrong with the help this morning?”

“That poor fellow isn’t one of the regulars,” Gobberd said. “The usual wait staff has the day off to prepare for that blasted Ladies’ Maids’ Ball this evening. The whole city’s in a boiling stew over it.” Gobberd cleared his throat loudly and, to Roger’s stomach’s discomfort, snorted wetly. “A lot of nonsense, if you ask me. Does a real disservice to the lower classes. Gives ’em airs above their station.”

The substitute footman came back, walking with such care it looked as if he scarcely drew breath. Roger took a sip of the coffee.

“It’s cold,” he complained. When the footman started to remove the tray, Roger stopped him with a glare. “Leave it. I’ve no hope you’d get it right even if you did try again.”

“Not to mention that he’ll probably spit in your cup next time,” Gobberd muttered behind his paper. “It’s only coffee. Why so particular?”

Roger swallowed back his reply.
“Only” coffee.

Gobberd’s use of “only” whisked him back to his childhood when it seemed all he heard was “only.” It had been
only
his marks in school…
only
his seat on a horse…
only
the way he spoke with his mouth full…

Only. Only. Only.

His parents tried to control everything about him, all the while trying to make it seem as if it was for his own good.

As if they
cared
.

He knew better.

They treated him as though he were merely an appendage of themselves, as if his accomplishments were theirs. And as if his failures somehow redounded to them as well. Oh, how they made him pay when that happened.

But as Roger moved through his awkward boyhood, he found his own ways of taking control. He found that he liked it.

Craved it, even.

Of course, when his parents found his little experiments with power, the skinned frogs and singed cats, they’d tried to threaten him into stopping. Once his father had even beaten him, but when Roger gutted his favorite hunting dog the next day in a way that made it seem as if the hound had run afoul of a wild boar, the threats and beatings stopped.

His parents walked warily around him after that.

They should have known better than to try to deny him, so he’d simply wrestled it from them.

Control.

And now that his parents were dead, he was the one who held all the power in his life.

Finally.

Roger studied Lord Gobberd over his cold coffee. If he didn’t understand how vitally important it was to have absolute control over every aspect of one’s life, Roger couldn’t explain it to him. Gobberd was content to bobble along through life like so much bloated flotsam.

Not Roger. He’d do one better than control his own life. He’d make certain of the fate of those around him as well. It was the “only” thing to do.

“Not much doing here this morning. I don’t see any of the regulars,” Roger said.

He’d hoped to run into Lord Nathaniel Colton again, without Lady Georgette at his side this time. Though the man had technically done him what others saw as a “good turn” when he paid for his care that day Roger had stumbled into White’s, it grated on Roger’s nerves that others thought he was beholden to Colton in some way. He’d never surrender that sort of power to another. Colton needed to learn that.

“Why is this place so dead this morning?” Roger asked.

Gobberd glared at him over his paper, clearly annoyed at the interruption. “Probably because there’s also a ball for the Duke of Cambridge at Lord Yorkingham’s this evening.” Lord Gobberd flipped to the next page and scanned the headlines. “Didn’t you receive an invitation?”

“Of course,” Roger said quickly. He hadn’t, but Gobberd didn’t need to know that. “Yorkingham’s country seat abuts my own property. Our families have been friendly for years.”

Less friendly since his parents died rather unexpectedly and Roger came into the barony in his own right. But again, that was information Lord Gobberd didn’t need.

“I find it odd that it requires an entire day to prepare for an evening’s entertainment,” Roger said.

Lord Gobberd gave up and laid his paper aside. “According to all reports, this will be no ordinary evening. Odds highly favor that the Duke of Cambridge will make an official proposal to Lady Georgette at the ball. Check the book, if you doubt me. I’ve put fifty pounds on the lady’s nose myself. She’ll be the first filly out of the gate in the ‘Hymen Race Terrific’ if the betrothal and marriage come to fruition.”

White’s ledger of wagers was full of any number of items on which its members might hazard a bet. Whether or not Lady Georgette Yorkingham would become a royal was high on the current list, just under whether or not a horse named Blanchington’s Fancy would throw a shoe during its race on Saturday next.

“Hmm, I would have said the lady was taken with Lord Nathaniel Colton, not the royal duke,” Roger mused. He’d noticed the way Georgette and Colton sneaked glances at each other at the Daventrys’ musical evening and drew his own conclusions. “They’ve been seen together in public quite a bit.”

“Doesn’t signify. He’s only serving as an escort because of his past relationship with the family.” Gobberd shook his head, setting his jowls swaying, and resumed reading his paper. “But if Colton has feelings for the lady, he’s in for a rough evening.”

Wonder
if
there’s a way I can make it rougher
, Roger mused as he bit down on one of the biscuits. The shortbread was stale and he pushed aside the rest in disgust.

“Speak of the devil,” Gobberd said, lowering his paper. “Or should I say ‘devil-ette.’”

Lady Georgette strolled past the large window at White’s, accompanied by her maid. The girl was chattering happily and Lady Georgette seemed to actually be listening.

As
if
a
servant
might
possibly
have
something
worthwhile
to say.

“That maid seems an insolent bit of baggage,” Roger said. “I require mine to be seen only when absolutely necessary and heard not at all.”

“An old-fashioned view, I fear. Nowadays, women confide a good deal in their maids. Almost make companions of them,” Gobberd said with a derisive snort. “Were I a betting man—and I am—I’d lay odds that Lady Georgette takes that young chit to the palace with her when she marries.”

“Surely not. The royals undoubtedly have plenty of servants already.” Roger squinted at the maid and recognized her. “Besides, I have it on good authority that the young woman used to sell herself in Covent Garden.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Lord Gobberd said. “Word is Lady Georgette is spearheading a misguided effort to save soiled doves, you know. Stands to reason her maid is one of her ‘successes.’ See how she seems to dote upon her.”

Roger followed the women’s progress down the street. They did seem more like friends than employer and employee, heads together conspiratorially as they ducked into a milliner’s shop. Perhaps that unnatural attachment between them was something he could use.

A plan began to take shape in his gin-soaked brain. It was brilliant in its audacity. He’d exercise control over a woman who’d snubbed him and a man who thought he was beholden to him. Roger would even tweak the nose of the royal duke by denying him a bride in the process.

Now that was power.

Roger rose so hastily, his chair toppled over behind him.

“Where are you haring off to, Fishwick?”

“I just remembered some…some matters of my estate to which I must attend.” He dashed out of White’s. There was so much to do.

Of course, if he managed to pull it off, no one could ever know it was his work.

But he’d know.

And that would be enough.

***

“Oh, milady, it’s the finest thing I ever had in all me livin’ life.” Mercy clutched the hatbox to her chest as they walked back to the waiting Yorkingham carriage. “And no one’s ever worn it before me. Meanin’ no disrespect, I’m sure. I’m tickled to pieces to be wearing that old gown o’ yours this evening. But to think I’d ever have a brand new bonnet to go with it…”

She teared up and couldn’t finish her thought.

“It’s all right, Mercy. You don’t have to take on so. I know it pleases you,” Lady Georgette said.

Suddenly serious, Mercy cut a glance at her employer. “I wish ye knew what pleases yerself.”

“How do you mean?”

Mercy sighed. She’d broached this subject with milady any number of times with no success whatsoever.

Well, in for a penny…

“This Duke of Cambridge fellow—”

“I believe you’d ought to refer to him as ‘His Royal Highness,’” Lady Georgette corrected.

“Yes, o’ course, ah…him. Ye know next to nothing about His Royal Highness yet ye’re set to become ’is bride. It don’t seem right, do it? Ye’re as smart a noble lady as ever I’ve met.” Mercy thought that might be damning Lady Georgette with faint praise since she’d observed no real sense in any of the wellborn women she’d crossed paths with, but she couldn’t very well say that. “This turn of events can’t be pleasing to ye. Not really.”

Lady Georgette’s lips compressed in a crooked line. “I know I’ve encouraged you to speak your mind, but this time you’re out of line, Mercy.”

“Maybe. But ye’re about out of time. I know ye fancy Lord Nathaniel. I dares ye to tell me different.”

Milady looked away. “You can’t possibly know what’s in another person’s heart.”

“Sure ye can. People are far easier to read than books. Everything they think or feel or think about feelin’ shows on their faces. Some more than others, to be sure, but it shows all the same,” Mercy said. “If ye’re not far gone on Lord Nate and have been for some time now, why…I’ll eat this cunning little bonnet you just bought me!”

Lady Georgette laughed. “Since it goes so well with your gown, you’d better not.” Then all traces of mirth left her features and she lifted her chin. “Whatever I may or may not feel for Lord Nathaniel makes no difference. Sometimes, we aren’t able to please ourselves, however much we may wish it.”

“But—”

“There is no but. Trust me when I say this is the way things are and the way they’ll stay.” Lady Georgette’s lips tightened in a hard line, and the chin she’d just jutted upward quivered for a moment. “In any case, the question is moot. Lord Nathaniel has left Yorkingham House.” Her voice trailed away to a wisp of sound. “He has left…me.”

Mercy could have kicked herself. In her excitement over her own ball and the special evening she was planning with Reuben, she’d completely missed the fact that she hadn’t seen Lord Nathaniel at the house that morning.

“Well, then, the man’s a bigger fool than Mr. Darling ever thought about being, and that’s saying something.” Mercy linked arms with her employer and put her head down into the stiff wind. “Come, milady. Let’s forget about men for a bit. Lord knows they forget about us often enough. We needs to get ye home and into a nice hot tub for a long soak. And I don’t want ye out of the water till ye’re good and pruney!”

***

The way the maid clutched that hatbox told Roger it didn’t contain something for her mistress. Lady Georgette had been as foolishly indulgent as he suspected she was and had bought something brand new for her servant.

Gobberd was right on that score. Such unnecessary generosity did nothing but create a soft underclass that would soon begin to feel itself ill-used if it wasn’t coddled and pandered to.

But Lady Georgette’s largesse played right into Roger’s hand, so he couldn’t find too much fault.

As soon as Lady Georgette and her maid disappeared around the corner, Roger ducked into the milliner’s shop they’d just exited. Festooned with lace and feathers and a rainbow of ribbons, the place positively reeked of femininity. Scents of linen and talc, with an undernote of glue and the faint metallic tang of mercury, tickled his nostrils.